Abstract Paintings on a Yankees TShirt
by MelWil
Summary: Post Bartlet but without any of Season Four - CJ muses on the past


Abstract Paintings on a Yankees T-Shirt  
  
Rating: G Archive: Just tell me where Feedback: Is delightful - lina_wilson@hotmail.com Disclaimer: I just make them dance. Summary: "It is a Yankees T-Shirt, but you pretend that you don't know what that means."  
  
~*~  
  
The digital clock on the phone display counts off another second, reaching 04:00:00 before continuing in its relentless way. The road outside is still and dark, and you stand vigil by the window, but you see nothing. You never used to want a place where the street below was visible from the window, but you've reached the stage of not caring anymore.  
  
You lean your forehead against the cool glass and watch the empty street below. In your right hand you hold a fistful of heavy, over decorated curtain, restraining it so that it doesn't obstruct your view. In your left hand you squeeze a small, pink, rubber ball. You pinched it from his desk when they were packing up his office.  
  
You wear an oversized T-shirt, soft after too many washes, the hems unravelled and the colour dull. It is a Yankees T-Shirt, but you pretend that you don't know what that means, and you tell yourself that the only reason you wear it all the time is because it's comfortable. The more you repeat this, the more you know you are kidding yourself.  
  
You are barefooted on the threadbare carpet. You intended to have the carpet replaced when you moved here. No one should be expected to live with worn and faded carpet. But that was four years ago when renovations held excitement.  
  
Leo had made you all go home the night before the election. He had managed to convince you, desperately tired, that there was nothing more you could do to affect the result. You should just go home, leave it in the hands of the voters. Your neglected body had craved the rest, but your mind had raced; maybe you should hold one more press briefing, one more whirlwind tour around the shaky states, another speech . . .  
  
But it's ten years too late and you stand vigil by your window. You sleep very little and you have another sixty minutes before your day can start.  
  
You bedroom is depressingly empty, like the one in Los Angeles and the one in Chicago before that. Just your bed, with it's haphazard covers and the square bedside table full with a reading lamp and the phone. Your closet is built in, carefully divided into three parts, work clothes, good clothes, casual clothes. The pictures on the walls are nondescript abstracts in unremarkable colours. You don't have any books in the bedroom, it's not a room good for reading.  
  
The four of you all reacted in different ways when the news of the defeat struck. Josh hit the wall and screamed at the TV, before storming to his office. Sam's eyes were so sad, and he stared at the screen, as if his steady gaze would be able to change the result. Toby drank his scotch and closed his eyes and you knew how much he was hurting. And you just want to mother them all, just want to pull Josh out of his rage, want to make Sam believe that there are miracles, that this could be turned upside down, just want to sit next to Toby and be there. You want to help them, because losing hurts so badly and you want to cry, but defeat requires graciousness, even if it is an act.  
  
Then there was the aftermath, the joke of trying to run a country when it won't matter soon. Nothing new can be done, nothing much can be completed. The press stop caring about your boss and your press briefings, because confirmation hearings are more exciting and relevant. You know how this works, you were once in their place, you were the one having lunch with the same reporters who now, four years later, are writing about your legacy. Your legacy, you find, can be summed up quickly by the pundits: a slow start, Mendoza, a quick burst, MS, a pitiful end.  
  
The packing up. The millions of boxes that need to be sent to New Hampshire for storage. Donna happy that she doesn't have to sort through them. The decorators pouring in and invading every space that used to be yours. The President-elect wants the Oval office in peach and pale blue. Your reporters seem to be the only ones going no where and you spend a lot of time there. You catch Josh and Sam examining a keyboard, wondering if they could remove one essential key. You notice that Margaret *has* rearranged the keys on her keyboard. You empty your desk into a few boxes, you have more stuff than the last time you were fired. You steal a rubber ball from Toby's desk.  
  
You all spread in separate ways. The President goes home. Leo stays in D.C. because he knows it best, and anyway, he wants to be close to Mallory. Toby travels, becoming the world wide political writer who everyone *has* to read. Josh roams, trying to find his next big thing. Sam moves to Boston for a cushy law firm job. Even Ainsley leaves the White House for a job on the hill.  
  
And you go to North Western University, because they were the first to ask you. You take classes that make you feel old and under qualified. You speak about how words can mean so much and you think about Toby and Sam. You tell amusing stories about trying to find an elusive leak, and you remember Toby had you find the leak in the first place. You last two and a half years in Chicago.  
  
Your mother convinces you to return to Los Angeles, to return to working for the Democratic party. You spend three and a half years moving between being an occasional spokeswoman, giving lectures at UCLA and sitting on the beach. Sam gets married and brings his wife and baby daughter to visit you before they move to Australia for a year or so. You watch them and they're so happy and you wonder how on earth they got that way.  
  
And now you lecture at Sam's alma mater and your classes are the most sought after. It has been ten years since your time in the White House and the revisionist history has been kind. The youngest people you teach were only seven when you left the White House.  
  
You know it would be easy to visit Toby. You see Josh all the time, and hear from Sam at least once a week and you know that both of them are in contact with Toby. You have his phone number and address and he has yours. But you justify your silence because it's been ten years and he wouldn't understand the grey in your hair, or the lack of sleep, or the threadbare carpet. He wouldn't understand your comfortable slip into academia after six years of loathing it. And he wouldn't understand the Yankees T-shirt or the pink rubber ball.  
  
So you stand at the window, because the sun has to rise, and it'll bring yet another day for you to complete. 


End file.
